


Exercises in Prime

by pendrecarc



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: F/M, Post-The King of Attolia, Swordplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 04:24:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7207739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendrecarc/pseuds/pendrecarc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The beginning exercises are always important.</p><p>Eugenides is King of Attolia, and he is determined to add another weapon to his queen's arsenal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exercises in Prime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bellamy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellamy/gifts).



> Thanks to Zeebie and bookwyrm for the beta!

_Eugenides…limped toward the queen, and the courtyard quieted as he approached and was silent again as he dropped to his knees before her and laid the sword across her lap._

_“My Queen,” he said._

_“My King,” she said back._

_Only those closest saw him nod his rueful acceptance._

_He lifted his hand to brush her cheek softly. As the entire court listened breathlessly, he said, “I want my breakfast.”_

********

Bathed, fed, and immaculate in a brightly embroidered coat, the King of Attolia approached the queen’s chambers, arriving for once by way of the door. He had considered coming by his usual route, but it seemed this was a day for making statements.

When he entered the antechamber, the attendant rose and bowed. “If you will wait here, my King,” she said, her respectful manner not quite hiding the fact that it was not a request. She rapped softly on the door and went inside, leaving the king to reflect on the nature of statements.

The attendant reappeared, holding the door wide open. Attolis met her eyes as he strode past, and she lowered them, very demurely, a fraction of a second too late. The corner of his mouth twisted up. Because there was no-one but his wife to see it, he didn’t bother to hide the grin as he went inside.

The queen rose but made no move to greet him. “How is Teleus?”

He rocked back on his heels, looking for a moment as if he might overbalance. The queen narrowed her eyes and waited for him to catch himself. “Teleus?” he demanded. “ _Teleus_ did not wake up with a headache only to suffer through half a dozen sparring matches and an assassination attempt.” When still she only waited, he said resentfully, “He has a bruise on his neck. _I_ am exhausted.”

“I was not asking about his physical health,” said the queen.

Mock outrage gave way to a smile. It seemed shockingly restrained in contrast. “His dignity will recover, too.”

“And the guard?”

“The guard can take a few blows to its dignity. Even,” he went on, when impatience rose in her eyes, “to having its numbers halved.”

“Ah,” said the queen. She no longer looked impatient. “He has agreed, then.”

“He has. Will you honor your promise?”

She gave him a reproving look, and he laughed aloud, walking straight up to her. She put a hand up to stop him before he could reach for her. Taking him by the chin, she held him there, staring down into his face. Even in thin slippers, she was several inches taller. When she had looked her fill, she leaned in to kiss him, and his eyes fluttered closed.

After a moment she drew back. “I am exhausted,” he murmured.

“So you say.”

“I _am_ ,” he insisted, throwing himself onto the bed in what would have been an expansive sprawl if he hadn’t immediately recoiled. “Ow! What is that?” He twisted around like a startled cat to glare at the wooden practice sword that had poked him in the shoulder.

“Your latest gift to your wife,” said the queen. She moved to the bed and sat beside him, arranging her skirts carefully before she lifted the sword by its blunt edge. “It is less conventional than the earrings, of course.”

“Which did you prefer?” asked Eugenides.

Now at last she did smile. “They both have their uses.” And it was his turn to kiss her.

When at length he ended it, all his exaggerated energy was gone, leaving only quiet contentment in its place. His thumb traced the line of her jaw. Then he dropped his eyes to her lap, where the sword still lay, and he saw the way her right hand had curled tight and purposeful around the hilt.

He might not have said anything, but a light flush rose to her cheeks. “What is it?” he asked, a smile in his voice.

The flush only deepened. “Nothing.” She released the hilt at once, transferring her grip back to the blade. “This is yours.” She tried to offer it back, but he laid his hook over the sword, holding it in place.

“I gave it to you, Irene,” he said, tilting his head at her. She returned his gaze with silence. “Have you ever used a sword?”

Moments before she had been warm and pliant. Now her back was straight, her posture as rigid as it was regal. “Of course not.”

“As you said, they have their uses,” said Eugenides.

“For a king,” she replied. “For his guards, and his soldiers. Not for a queen.”

“The queen of Eddis learned the first exercises when she was eight.”

“I know,” she said, averting her face. “I was told all about it, about her riding and hunting and climbing, and I was supposed to laugh at the barbarian goatfoot princess and go back to my embroidery.” Months ago the conversation might have ended there, but now he knew to sit in silence until she turned back to him. “I didn’t want to laugh. I wanted to scream.”

In the end she’d done neither, of course.

“You could learn now,” he pointed out.

At that, she did laugh. “I hardly think that’s necessary.”

“It doesn’t have to be necessary,” said Attolis. “It could just be fun.”

“Fun,” she repeated with dry emphasis. “Like those weeks you spent torturing poor Costis? ”

“That _was_ fun,” he assured her.

“Not, I think, for Costis.”

He shrugged, admission and dismissal in the same quick gesture. “That was only because of the humiliation. Well, mostly because of the humiliation. I won’t humiliate you. I wouldn’t dare.” He got to his feet, sword in hand, and waved it at the empty corners of her bedchamber. “See, there’s no-one here to watch.”

She gave him a small frown of genuine puzzlement. “Why does this matter to you? It isn’t as if you wanted to learn in the first place.”

“But you did.”

She raised her chin. “Yes, I did.”

“So, so, so,” said the king.

“Fine,” said Attolia, standing abruptly. “But I am not Eddis.”

“I am relieved to hear it. But, specifically…?”

“I do not wear trousers.”

His eyes flicked to her legs, considering, and one eyebrow lifted. “We’ll have to see about that. My tailor—”

“Eugenides,” she said. Her flush had darkened, but her voice was sharp.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said smoothly. “Not for today. We’ll begin with the first exercises.” He tossed the wooden sword in the air, catching it by the blade and offering the hilt to the queen. She took it in her hand, turning it over and testing the weight. “Stance first,” he said, suddenly businesslike, and showed her where to put her feet and how to arrange her hips.

And then made her stand there, not doing anything in particular with her sword, until she had developed a terrible itch high on the bridge of her nose. She ignored it. She had ignored worse irritations in the course of their marriage.

“Good enough,” he said at last. “Now raise your right arm. Bend the elbow. Not that far. Drop your left shoulder—and _relax_.”

The queen of Attolia ground her teeth, but inch by inch she let go of the tension in her neck, shoulders, and wrist.

“Tomorrow I’ll bring another sword,” Eugenides said.

“I did not agree to do this tomorrow.”

“Today we’ll make do without. I am going to thrust low—” He extended his right arm, hook first. “And you are going to parry. Like this.” He took her wrist in his hand and turned it so the blade came down and out, gently meeting the leather cuff at the base of the hook. “There, pushing my sword to the side, away from your body. Your turn.”

A slow thrust of the hook. Wood slapped against leather. His arm was like iron, rock-steady, but her arms ached, and her nose itched worse than ever. “Again.” She tossed a stray curl out of her eyes, then stepped back and readied herself. He made her wait, then moved with agonizing slowness. A turn of her wrist, a drop of the blade. “Again.”

Her muscles burned. He corrected her stance. “Again.” A bead of sweat broke from her hairline and rolled down to her nose.

“Again.”

The blade landed, and this time the hook wavered.

“Enough,” she said. “You’re exhausted.”

“I did tell you,” he said, tone suddenly aggrieved. “You wouldn’t listen before. Put your sword back up.”

“Enough,” she repeated, softly. They were standing quite close. He could hear her pant with effort, and she could see the slight tremor of his forearm, now that she knew to look for it.

“I’m not that tired,” he said, but she let the sword fall from her right hand even as her left snaked up to her hair, reaching unerringly into the coiled mass to pluck a small and shining blade from the forest of hairpins. She struck, and while his hook was still twisting up to parry, her knife’s edge kissed the side of his throat.

“No?” she asked.

His breath had stilled in his lungs. When he let it out again, it was in a low, helpless laugh. “Well,” he said, smiling up at her, “when you put it like that.” And he dropped his head, trusting her to drop the knife, and let his forehead rest against her shoulder.

Slowly, carefully, she brought a hand up to the back of his neck.

“Tomorrow,” he said into the collar of her gown, “I will bring another sword.”

She drew her fingertips through the short, sweat-flattened curls at the top of his spine. He shivered under her touch, though not in startlement or fear. She had learned by now to tell the difference. “Is it tedious,” she asked after a moment, “to get everything you want?”

“I haven’t gotten _everything_.”

“Today, I think you have. Teleus would agree.”

“Oh, Teleus. Was he the one who taught you to use a knife?”

“No. He taught me to shoot a pistol, when I asked him to. Phresine taught me how to use a knife and where to hide it. Her, I didn’t have to ask.”

“Of course,” he said, and she knew he was smiling again. “I should have known. But they didn’t call you a barbarian goatfoot.”

“Knives may be useful, for a queen. So are pistols. Swords are a vulgar indulgence.”

“ _Hmm_ ,” he said, the sound vibrating against her skin. “Is that what this is?”

She closed her eyes and leaned against him. “Yes.”

“I should warn you,” he said, very low, “I intend to make certain you get everything you want.”

“Yes, my King,” said Attolia, who knew as well as anyone how to make a statement.

“Yes,” he said, tired, resigned—and deeply satisfied. “Even that.”


End file.
